


no net ensnares me

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, for the jonsaexchange, jane eyre au, look I love pining and I love Jane Eyre...me writing a fic for it was inevitable!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 11:06:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: It’s just before Christmas that Jon truly realizes what trouble he’s in. He’d been able to delude himself for a time, insisting that he and Lady Sansa were only friends, but towards the end of December he has to brave the truth--that he’s falling for her. It’s not love yet, perhaps, but close enough that Jon knows what he feels, and how strongly he feels it.Or, a Jane Eyre inspired AU where Jon is the tutor that's come to Winterfell manor to teach Sansa's nephews, and falls in love with his distant employer.





	no net ensnares me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uchiha_s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/gifts).



> my gift for @uchihabat on tumblr in this round of the jonsaexchange! This is based very loosely on Jane Eyre, because I love the setup for the story so much!

Jon Snow’s entry to Winterfell Manor was on perhaps the windiest night of the Scottish autumn. He blows in on foot, after dusk, as the carriage he rented would only take him so far as the main road. The manor loomed above him in the dark, tall and foreboding. 

He knocked on the side entrance specified in the letter he’d received, and waited. He’d written ahead from London with the date they could expect him, though Jon could not have expected them to have waited up this late. It is after a few minutes spent shivering on the step that he hears shuffling beyond the door. When it swings open, he’s greeted with the a warm light and the now-familiar Scottish burr of the highlands.

“Ack, my boy, you must be freezing in your shoes!”

“I’m Jon Snow,” he introduces, gladly surrendering his bags to the servant boy who steps forward to claim them. “The new tutor.”

“Aye,” the old woman who opened the door replies, ushering him into the kitchens. “We’ve been expecting you, but not at so late an hour. You must be hungry?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jon answers as he’s steered into a seat. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

She waves that away with a spotted hand. “None of this ‘ma’am’ nonsense. We’re not so formal below stairs here in Winterfell. Old Nan is fine. I’m the head housekeeper for the Starks. And it’s no trouble. We always keep some stew on, in case Lord Rickon comes down for it. He’s a growing boy and eats in the wee hours of the mornin’ sometimes.”

Jon nods, and takes the proffered plate with thanks. It’s warm, and Jon eats it appreciatively. 

“I expect ye’ll be longing for bed, then?” Old Nan asks when he’s done, although it’s not quite directed like a question. “Come, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

He falls asleep deeply for the first time since he set out from London, belly full and body tired. 

  
  
  


He is to meet his charges in the morning, little Ned and Torrhen Stark, but just before he is to see them he finds out what he’d heard whispered back when he’d accepted the job in London. Lord Robb Stark had passed the year before, leaving his wife Jeyne in charge of the estate till her sons came of age. 

“Lady Jeyne has no head for the estate runnin’, though,” Hullen, the footman, says over breakfast. “So’s it’s Lady Sansa who runs Winterfell, really. She’s the late lord’s sister.”

“How did Lord Stark die, if I may ask?” 

Hullen shakes his head. “Nasty business, that was. A drunken lordling on holiday bothering some o’ the people down in the village when Lord Stark was down there. When he tried to intervene, the boy shot him. He died of infection three days later.”

Jon tries not to imagine this when he meets the boys. Lady Jeyne Stark had, in fact, engaged him to tutor her sons--explained in her letter that she thought it best to put off boarding school until they were older. Jon can understand her motivation to keep them close, he supposes, now that he knows how her husband passed. 

He meets Lady Jeyne in the library, with the two boys fidgeting on the settee. They are both red-haired, true Scots in appearance, and the twinkle in their eyes give Jon the impression that these boys are quite mischievous. Good. He likes children with some spirit to them. One of his early charges, Lady Shireen, had been altogether too quiet.

“Mr. Snow,” Lady Jeyne greets, standing. She’s English, like him, with her pretty chestnut hair done up in a knot, her eyes aged beyond her years. “I’m glad you have arrived. Was your journey difficult?”

“Not at all,” he replies, fighting the urge to be overly formal. The people here seem less formal than his last engagement, with the Tarlys. Back there, Lord Tarly had insisted Jon call little Dickon Tarly--only six--by his full title. 

“Well,” Lady Jeyne says, smiling. “These are my boys, Ned and Torrhen. Boys, Lord Snow is to be your tutor from now on. Behave, please.”

“What will you be teaching us?” Ned asks once his mother is gone, furrowing his brow. “Torrhen and I already know loads of important things--we can fish, and catch cats. Our aunt Arya taught us. And I know my letters.”

Jon smiles, and kneels down till he’s level with them on the settee, “You’re quite accomplished, then. How old are you?”

Ned holds up seven fingers proudly. 

“Well, Ned, you’re very smart for your age. I’ll be teaching you music, and geography, and some maths. And the same for your brother, but he probably needs to learn his letters, doesn’t he?”

Torrhen pipes up, indignant. “I know some of them!”

Jon likes them already.

  
  
  


His first meeting with Sansa Stark is, quite frankly, embarrassing. He’s glimpsed her from the hall before, through the door to the dining room as it swung closed behind a servant bearing food, but Jon has little to do with anyone but the boys and the servants. She’s beautiful, so beautiful that Jon actually flushes whenever he passes by her in the library, escorting Ned and Torrhen to their lessons. Her bright copper hair and the regal set to her face render her untouchable, unapproachable--especially to Jon, who’s always been able to  _ appreciate _ beauty but never to act on his fascination with it. And so they never speak. In fact, he’s had more conversation with the wild sister, Lady Arya, who bustles about the manor in trousers after her fencing lessons, who’s taken a keen interest in Jon’s boarding school stories. 

It is nearly three weeks into his stay at Winterfell that Jon finally has the chance to speak with her, and even then it is by accident. When he hears the sniffling during his walk in the gardens, he merely follows it to make sure it’s not Jeyne Poole crying over having burned the stew again. 

It’s Lady Sansa. Jon freezes as soon as he sees her hair. It wouldn’t be proper for him to approach one of the ladies of the house when they’re in tears, he knows, but a part of Jon has always longed to solve the problems of others. Torn between helping and not, he shifts his foot, and the sound of leaves crunching is  _ loud _ , louder than he expected. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lady Sansa stiffen, wipe her face, and turn to him.

“Mr. Snow,” she says, and if not for the redness of her eyes, Jon would not have known she was crying. “Apologies, I did not know you were there.”

Jon winces, “No, no, it is I who should apologize, I did not mean to interrupt. Are you--” he hesitates, before barreling on, “Is everything well? I thought I heard...”

If she’s offended at the straightforwardness of the question, Lady Sansa does not let it crack through her composure. “You must have been mistaken,” she tells him, though her voice is shaky. 

“Of course,” Jon says, and wishes he were anywhere but here. Still, he opens his mouth to make it more awkward, “I apologize, I’ll go, I was just out for a walk.”

Lady Sansa shakes her head, eyes widening. “Oh, you don’t have to leave because of me--” she protests. 

“I was just going in anyways--”

“Let’s start over,” she cuts in, smiling. Jon stops speaking immediately, and has to mentally shake himself from his trance.  _ That smile _ … “It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Snow. I do hope you're enjoying our late autumn weather here in the highlands.”

“Ah, yes! I’ve always enjoy the cold air of the country much more so than the London air,” Jon replies, eager for both an escape and a continuation of their conversation. “You've got some lovely late-blooming roses in this garden, and such a handsome color.”

“We do? Oh, please do show me,” Sansa says, standing. “I haven't seen our winter roses yet.”

“Winter roses?”

She takes his proffered elbow, lets Jon escort her to the bed of flowers he spotted, hidden beneath the leaves of an old willow at the edge of the garden. “Yes, they're quite rare, even in Scotland, and only grow when it begins to get cold. They don't truly last to winter, but they sound nicer than autumn roses, don't you think?”

“I do,” Jon agrees, and watches as she kneels besides the roses, fingers brushing the petals. He half expects Sansa to pluck the flowers, but she just sighs and stands. 

“I'm not doing a wonderful job of convincing you I'm perfectly happy, am I?”

Jon hesitates, before saying, “It's none of my business, Lady Sansa.””

“I can tell you’re curious, though,” she says, and smiles glumly. “It’s quite a silly thing--my old school friend Margaery wrote to me earlier that she would not be coming to winter with us here at Winterfell. She’s engaged, you see.”

Jon nods, although he doesn’t see, exactly, until she continues.

“The silly thing is that  _ I _ was engaged to the man--his name is Joffrey Baratheon, you may have heard of him--but broke it off, and then my brother passed away. Margaery thought I could use cheering, and said she’d come by for the winter, but now...she’s marrying him and I don’t quite understand.”

Jon blinks. “Oh,” he says, “I see now.”

Lady Sansa takes a deep breath. “Well. I will weather this storm. I was so looking forward to having a friend with us for the winter. It hasn’t been the same since my brother died, and I wanted to bring some life back into these halls. It’s just very hard to be here without him.”

Jon hesitates, before saying, “Have you spoken to your sister or Lady Jeyne? Perhaps they would like to winter somewhere away from Winterfell, if that would be easier. It must be difficult to live with his memory.”

Lady Sansa shakes her head. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” she says. “Especially when winter comes.” Jon doesn’t understand why she says it with such seriousness, but by her tone, he can tell staying in Winterfell is important to her, no matter the ghosts it holds. 

With that, they begin their ascent back to the manor, her hand tucked into his elbow. Jon’s skin burns through his shirt for hours afterwards.

  
  
  


She joins them, a few days later, for the boys’ music lesson. It’s not rare for one of the ladies of the house to listen in while Jon teaches the boys violin, but  _ she _ ’s never done it before, and the awareness of Lady Sansa across the room makes Jon’s neck prickle all the while. 

Ned is atrocious at violin, but surprisingly it’s Torrhen’s little fingers that make deft work of it. 

“Ned plays better when you’re here,” Jon observes one day, if only to watch the flush of pride creep up Sansa’s neck. “Your encouragement means a lot to him.”

“Well,” she says, and by  _ god _ , it’s fascinating to watch her blush. “I play pianoforte myself, and Ned does so love listening to the music.”

“Oh Sansa, you must play for us!” Lady Jeyne exclaims, looking up from her needlepoint. “It’s been quite some time since your last concert, I believe. I’ve not heard you play in ages!”

“Perhaps another time,” Sansa replies, looking away from Jon. “I haven’t practiced.”

Jon wishes that he could respond, perhaps tease her, tell her not to plant such ideas in Ned’s head or he’d never be an accomplished violinist. It’s not his place, though, and again, Jon fights the urge to act overly familiar with her. 

“When you have,” he says, “I think we’d all love a concert. Wouldn’t we, boys?” 

Ned and Torrhen nod eagerly. Lady Sansa smiles at her nephews. “A concert we shall have, then. On Christmas.”

Their eyes meet, as she excuses herself, and for a brief moment in time, Jon finds himself drowning in blue before Ned tugs at his sleeve again. The moment ends, and the natural order is restored.

  
  
  


Jon and Lady Sansa are, perhaps, friends. It's strange for Jon to fathom, but over the next few weeks they spend much time together; between caring for the boys, Sansa asking for his help preparing her music selections, and seeking Jon out for windy turns around the garden, they have somehow, impossibly, become confidants. Jon tells her of his family, growing up an unwanted natural son among aristocratic, privileged siblings who cared little for him, and in turn she tells him the truth of her betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon--how he'd belittled her and been so cruel she'd been scared to break the engagement off. Their friendship doesn't dampen the appreciation Jon has for her; in contrast, it raises her in Jon's estimation. She's kind, and generous, with an acerbic wit that delights and embarrasses Jon in equal measures. When he's invited with the boys to tea time he finds himself holding in laughter at her sly jabs that go over Jeyne and Arya's heads. They don't expect her to be funny, Sansa tells him softly one day, or strong. 

“It's difficult for them to look past the silly girl I was,” she explains, her eyes trained on the sheet music before her. 

“That's a shame, then,” Jon says, letting his tongue run ahead of him. “I quite like enjoy the company of the woman you are.”

He cannot bring himself to regret the impulsive words, not when her smile lights the room so brilliantly. 

“Mr. Snow!” she exclaims, laughing. “What a flatterer you are!” 

  
  
  
  


It’s just before Christmas that Jon truly realizes what trouble he’s in. He’d been able to delude himself for a time, insisting that he and Lady Sansa were only friends, but towards the end of December he has to brave the truth--that he’s falling for her. It’s not love yet, perhaps, but close enough that Jon knows what he feels, and how strongly he feels it. 

It’s then that he contemplates his options.

Courting Sansa, of course, is nonsense. It is not only their class difference, the fact that he is the bastard son of a disgraced lord would make any respectable lady blanche at the prospect of marrying him. He is also a working man, with just enough of a salary to live on, and employed by her household to boot. There would be no advantage in Jon pursuing her, most definitely not for her. 

And so his decision is made. Jon must stay away from her, retreat into the distance they’d had before their first conversation. 

He makes it the four days till Christmas without incident, busy preparing the boys for their concert between lessons, furiously writing letters to his old school friends Pyp, Grenn and Sam, and most outrageously, helping Lady Arya fix her fencing dummy. But then Christmas comes and Jon, called up after supper is served, is called up to help the boys prepare for their concert. 

Outside himself, Ned and Torrhen, only the ladies are present. Their guests have all gone to bed, and Old Nan rocks in the corner, knitting. Jon looks at Sansa properly, for the first time in days. She’s absolutely  _ radiant _ , with her hair curled and a dove grey dress on, blue eyes glittering in the candlelight. Jon has to tear his eyes, away, heart beating. 

“Alright, boys,” he says, clearing his throat. “Do you want to show your mother what you’ve learned?”

Ned’s gotten better, Jon is proud to say, though in his private opinion he’ll never be a concertmaster. Torrhen plays beautifully, though, and Lady Jeyne claps loudest of all when they’re done.

“Very well done, Mr. Snow,” she says, seating her sons besides her. “And now I believe Sansa has a piece prepared for us.”

He’d helped her pick out the sheet music weeks ago--for a Haydn sinfonia, sweet and soft. Instead of that, however, Sansa takes a deep breath and begins to play Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata, building it up slowly, hauntingly. 

Jon had no idea she could play this way. Sansa looks utterly composed, but also completely engulfed in the music. He’s heard this piece dozens of times, but never been so immersed in the  _ performance  _ of it.    
The piece is long, and Sansa plays all movements perfectly, emotionally--even Ned and Torrhen’s fidgeting can’t distract Jon from her. 

How could he have ever thought he’d be able to ignore Sansa till these feelings disappeared? Jon has never felt more stupid. There’s no ignoring  _ this,  _ this force of nature before him. 

There’s a rosy glow to Sansa’s face when she finishes, lifting her hands off the pianoforte gracefully. 

Her eyes meet his over Jeyne’s shoulder, when she rises to embrace Sansa and congratulate her. She looks triumphant. Her eyes say,  _ I know what you’ve been doing, and I will not be ignored so easily. _

Jon wonders how he could have underestimated her so. 

  
  
  


He finds her after everyone else has gone to bed, seated again before the pianoforte, fingers resting easily over the keys.

“I haven’t played much since I came home,” she tells him, not looking around. “At first it was because of how I left things with Joffrey--I didn’t feel well enough to play. Then Robb died and…I couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, coming to sit besides her on the bench. 

“I didn’t want to get out of bed,” she continues. “I haven’t wanted to for months, but I knew that Jeyne and Arya needed me. Robb would have wanted me to help with Ned and Torrhen.” She looks at him, eyes wide and searching. “When you and I became friends, Mr. Snow...I do believe that was the first time I felt alive in over a year.”

Jon aches to grab her hand, tell her how he feels. Instead, he lays it on the pianoforte, two keys away from hers. She takes the invitation, touches her pinky to his. 

“Would it be too forward if I asked you to court me?” she says, studying their hands. 

“Lady Sansa--” Jon starts, “I could never, I’m not the sort of man who--”

“Sansa,” she interjects. “I’d like for you to call me by my name, especially if I can call you by yours.”

_ “Sansa,” _ he repeats. “I could never be the sort of man who would provide the life you deserve.”

“And what do I deserve?” she asks, taking his hand fully. “Tell me truly, Jon.”

Jon swallows. “A man who could give you whatever you desire.”

“I  _ desire _ you.”

Her fingers are smooth in his. Jon can’t breathe. “I cannot provide the life you are accustomed to.”

“It’s quite a good thing I have a large dowry, then, and an annual income.”

“I am a bastard.”

“A noble one. And I am a disgraced lady. We shall be the talk of the  _ tonne _ .”

Jon laughs at that, exasperated. “It isn’t proper, you know,” he says, through it. “I am employed by your sister in law as a tutor for her sons.”

Sansa leans closer to him. “The way you’ve been looking at me hasn’t been proper either,” she teases, “but do go on with your protests.”

“Your sister Arya will kill me,” Jon jokes. “I’ve seen her with that blade of hers.”

Sansa laughs. He’d do anything to hear it again. “Fight her for me, then.”

Their kiss is just a touch, but Jon’s lips tingle nonetheless. Sansa pulls away after a moment. “Will you, then?” she asks.

For a moment, Jon almost replies that he’d do anything for her.

“Court you?” Jon rubs his thumb across her hand. “As my lady commands.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed this fic, please leave a comment!


End file.
